


Pancakes: No Sprinkles

by copyallcatsandacrobats (ordinaryalchemy)



Category: Psych
Genre: Anal Sex, Awkwardness, Blow Jobs, Breakfast, First Time, Hopeful Ending, Humor, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:00:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1239016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinaryalchemy/pseuds/copyallcatsandacrobats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lassiter is not pleased when he is roped into keeping Shawn Spencer in his custody overnight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between 3x13 (“Any Given Monday Night At 10PM, 9PM Central”) and 3x14 (“Truer Lies”). Seven pounds of thanks to sarcasticsra for a beta-read and her suggestions.
> 
>  
> 
> _Pancake: In air intercept, a code meaning, "Land," or, "I wish to land" (reason may be specified; e.g., "pancake ammo," "pancake fuel"). ___

"I'm bored," Spencer whines.

"This is stupid," Spencer whines.

"I just wanted to make a hat out of it," Spencer whines.

"I'll stop whining if you let me breathe," Spencer whines.

Lassiter growls one last time into the idiot's face, snatches the case file back out of his idiot hands, and finally releases him into the chair next to his desk. 

Spencer glares at him, adding a touch of a juvenile pout, and theatrically tugs his shirt collar back into place. "If you'd just let me _leave_ I'll gladly get out of your hair, Lassie. Not that you have m—"

"Shut. Up." Lassiter levels a finger at him in lieu of making a grab for his cuffs to fasten him to the chair again. O'Hara hadn't liked that, and he actually _does_ have to work with her. "Do you want to go back downstairs, back into the holding cell with the friendly murderer we just put in there?"

"With _my_ help. If it wasn't for _my_ visions—"

"Yeah, yeah, if it wasn't for your visions you'd never be sure who was wearing matching underwear. And in case you forgot, the guy down there with the winning smile watched you flail around and name him as the accomplice. Keep pushing me, Spencer, and I'll just tell the Chief we needed some peace and quiet to finish trying to confirm _your alibi_ , which we both know is a crock." Lassiter drops back down into his own chair. "I'm not the one that _asked_ to baby-sit you, you know.”

"So _don't_. I'm a big boy, Lassie. I left the Pull-Ups behind in 1981 and everything." Spencer doesn't seem to be trying to get up again or reach for any of the desk's contents in his general area, so Lassiter doesn't look at him. There's quiet for a moment, and then he hears a small snicker. "Matching underwear? Do your Underoos have 'Monday' on them? Which would be good, great in fact," Spencer goes on hurriedly as Lassiter's shoulders tense, "since today's totally not Tuesday."

"One more word... "

"Which one? Do I have to guess, or can I ask the spirits for a leg up?" Spencer touches his fingers to his forehead and pulls a face. "Umm... it's 'kerfuffle'. No? No, it's 'pancake'. Yup, definitely 'pancake'. Which is making me hungry—my senses are totally telling me right now that breakfast would make a great dinner, so I'll just be going, do you want anything?"

"Spencer, I swear to the blindfold of justice itself—"

"No!" Spencer puts his hands up to ward off, even though Lassiter has barely even turned in his seat. "It really is 'pancake'." He points to the folded-up military crossword Lassiter had barely gotten started with that morning before being called in early to deal with more psychic bullshit. "Your eleven down, seven letters: pancake. You want whipped cream and sprinkles, right? I will be _right back_."

"That is _it_." Lassiter throws his pen down and stands up in time to see the Chief come out of her office and point at him, effectively summoning him.

"Bring Mr. Spencer," she adds, seeing O'Hara coming up the corridor and motioning to her as well. Lassiter rolls his eyes and stalks to the office, knowing the department's uninvited—and unwanted—pet will follow.

When Spencer turns wounded puppy eyes on him five minutes later, Lassiter snaps, "Denied!" before he can even get anything out. Wow, that felt good. "Don't even _think_ about it," he goes on. Yep. "Not even going to happen if I wake up Chief tomorrow." Bliss. Then he sees Vick's raised eyebrows and subsides a little. "Uh, with respect, Chief. What I mean to say is that I'm absolutely through baby-sitting, especially on my day off-duty."

"But I'll pay you three dollars an hour and you get to raid the fridge," Spencer whines.

"You mean Gus will pay him three dollars an hour," O'Hara says.

"I bet I could even get him to up to three-fifty and a sixth-month subscription to _Guns & Ammo_." Spencer nods seriously.

Lassiter grins, savoring the look he's going to see in about half an hour, when his least-favorite fraud is spending the night behind bars in place of bail. "I'm paid up through the year, thanks. In fact, I think I'll spend tonight reading. In quiet, and solitude. On my nice, comfy sofa."

"Chief, perhaps I could—" O'Hara begins.

Vick is already shaking her head. "No, Detective, you were only just able to get here, so you're still on duty tonight. There's no one to cover you except Carlton—"

"I'd rather cover her," Lassiter says immediately.

"—but he's already been on since this morning, and I can't ask him to work another twenty-four hours so soon after the last."

"I can do it," he says, annoyed. "It was two days ago, and I'd much rather work overtime than baby-sit."

"I don't need _anyone_ to watch over me," Spencer says again. "The spirit world lets me know when I need to lay low. Or lay with someone new. Also when I need new underwear, which may be why I haven't heard anything about a fresh date lately." He bounces his eyebrows at O'Hara, who shakes her head slowly, though the corners of her mouth turn up.

Lassiter rolls his eyes again. "It did a _real_ good job of letting you know that you can't hide in a senator's bathroom for six hours and raid his desk." 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Spencer," Vick says, sounding so. "Detective Lassiter was unable to confirm your given alibi. Unfortunately, he is the only member of my department I can release you to, and if he's this clearly against the idea, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. You do appear to have broken into the Senator's office, and he's unwilling to come down until tomorrow morning to consider dropping the breaking-and-entering charges against you."

Spencer looks offended. "I maintain that that's completely unfounded."

"There's _video_ of _your face_ in his office, you moron!" Lassiter says. Vick gives him a slightly exasperated look, and he subsides again, willing enough to let it go now that it's not going to be his problem in five minutes. "Your father knows you did it—that's why he won't come down to bail you out, right?"

"But I didn't break in!" he continues to insist. "I mean, it's true that I entered, but so did the senator, and the contractors were just not into the idea of building the new floor around me. Plus, it would have been really hard to find time to go away to get Lassie's pancakes every morning."

"You've never gotten me pancakes."

"Oh." Spencer touches his forehead again, a move that consistently makes Lassiter want to break out the older sibling move of smacking his own hand back into his face. "I must've been getting that from this coming week. It's a prediction I made earlier, and guess what? It includes sprinkles."

"I don't care about sprinkles."

Spencer puts his hands up, exasperated. "Fine, no sprinkles. Boy can this guy take all the fun out of breakfast in bed."

"Request denied, and I have work to do," Lassiter says loudly. "Excuse me, Chief."

"Just one more second, please, Carlton." Vick sighs. "I can't make you give up your off-duty time, but I'm going to ask you to reconsider. Mr. Spencer has been a help to this department time and time again, several times of his own volition."

"Including the time he immediately said you didn't kill Chavez," O'Hara adds unhelpfully.

"Nobody needed _him_ to tell you that," Lassiter grumbles.

"But I was the one that proved it," Spencer says, smiling in what he evidently thinks is a winning way. "Because I believed in you. How about a little benefit of the doubt coming back my way once, huh? _Pancakes._ How is it even possible to pass that up?" He shrugs at O'Hara.

"Because I don't _like_ pancakes, Spencer! No, you know what I want?" Lassiter holds up a hand to forestall whatever nonsense would have come after that. "I want you to shut up. Absolutely and completely, _shut up_ , for _once_."

Spencer appears to be considering this. "How long is a 'once'?" he asks finally. "Because I'll give anything a shot that doesn't involve me sitting in a cell with the dude who wants to rearrange my face."

"The _entire_ night."

"So... if I shut up the rest of the night, you'll let me come hang out with you instead of figuring out how far I can crawl under a cell cot?"

“You wouldn't have to stay in the same cell,” Vick explains gently. “There's more than one.”

“His bad vibes would destroy my ability to divinate,” Spencer says at once. “The spirits that watch out for me get scared when someone wants to kill me. My powers would be severely weakened for months.”

Vick makes eye contact with Lassiter. "If I can release Mr. Spencer to your custody, you can leave as soon as you're done filing your report of the victim's injuries. We'll expect both of you back tomorrow morning at eight."

He can see he's beaten. " _Fine_." He glares at Spencer, who looks grossly pleased and relieved. "But if—and _only_ if—you can sit your ass still _and quiet_ in that chair next to my desk until I'm finished. Do you really think you can do that, or are you just wasting everyone's time again?"

"I can do that," he says. "Not sure how I'll waste my time, though."

"No one cares."

"If you have anything I can help with—"

"Not at this moment, Mr. Spencer," Vick says, giving him a stern look. "The department is very thankful for all of your help, but right now I can't help but feel that it's in your best interests to sit still for a while."

Spencer shrugs. "Okay. Can I have my phone back?"

"It's evidence," Lassiter says at once. It is, but he also doesn't want to listen to game noises or buzzy text chimes, since this is very much not fake-psychic play time. "I'm not releasing it so that you can distract me all night."

"I'm sure you can go without it for now," Vick says, and holds out her hand to the clerk who taps on her office doors with a thin folder. "Thank you, Officer Ortiz. Carlton, I need you to sign off on Mr. Spencer being in your custody in lieu of bail. Mr. Spencer, you'll need to sign after the last paragraph, indicating your awareness that you can be brought back into official department custody if at any time Detective Lassiter feels that he cannot adequately keep you under his personal watch without jeopardizing either of your safeties." She raises her eyebrows at him, giving the underlying meaning a hefty push into the open.

"Or my sanity," Lassiter mutters, scratching his name.

"Oh, sure. I feel as safe as the people under the stairs," Spencer says lightly, leaning over to scribble.

"I think I saw that one," O'Hara muses bemusedly. "Weren't they cannibals?"

"Yeah. So what's for dinner, Lassie?" Spencer asks brightly, following him out of the Chief's office and plopping back down into the chair next to the Head Detective's desk. Lassiter scowls, but doesn't respond, not pleased about the work left to do, along with the prospect of trying to not toss the smart ass out of his moving car on the way back to his house.

O'Hara soon leaves with Detective Billick to collect a suspect in another case, but before she goes, Spencer manages to convince her—in huge, loud, prison yard whispers—to give him some paper and a pen. Lassiter ignores him and focuses on his report, transcribing his notes from the scene of what turned out to be not a random stabbing, but possibly a bribery attempt gone wrong, and the next time he glances at the clock in the corner of his computer screen, almost an hour has gone by and he doesn't remember hearing a peep from Spencer. He looks over and sees him still in the chair, sitting sideways with his back against a filing cabinet, and swinging one leg while gently gnawing on the end of the pen. There's a small pile of paper covered in a looping print on the floor.

"What are you doing?" Lassiter asks, too curious to let all of that slide. He's never known Spencer to be this quiet or to actually remain seated for this long. 

"Mmm?" Spencer flicks his eyes up after a moment. "I'm hunting wabbits. What are you doing?"

He's already sorry he asked. "Working. Never mind, just keep being quiet."

"You're not done yet?"

"No." He pauses and glances down at the pile of paper again. "What is that, your confession?"

Spencer snorts. "Yeah, no. I would need a lot more paper."

"I don't doubt it."

"Can I have more paper?"

Lassiter raises his eyebrows. "You're going to write out a confession? I don't think we _have_ enough paper."

Spencer grins like a jackass. "You're going to have to work harder than that for any of _my_ big secrets. No, this is just my _Criminal Minds_ fanfiction—my readers are loving my new serial killer. She's obsessed with guns and leaves parts of squirrels everywhere she goes, which is obviously an indicator of a bad, bad girl. She calls herself The Sassy Lassie." He pauses to tap the cap of the pen thoughtfully against one lip. "She doesn't like pancakes, the crazy bitch."

"All right," Lassiter snaps. "I don't give a crap what you're doing, as long as you stay quiet."

"I _was_ being quiet. And if you must know, I really do have ideas for some TV episodes—I write out stories, Gus fine-tunes them and fixes detaily crap no one cares about, and we send them around sometimes. I keep a stockpile of bits and pieces of plots and characters for when I'm bored."

"Nothing from real cases!" Lassiter wheels around, almost shocked.

Spencer looks affronted again. "Of course not. How could I even dream to top The Mystery of the Missing Peanut M&Ms from your bottom desk drawer?"

"They're not missing, they're—" Lassiter stops, yanks open his drawer, and sighs.

"Here's a clue," Spencer says. "I ate them half an hour ago. They were stale. Replace your snacks once in a while, jeez. How long does it even take for a peanut to go stale? See, if I had my phone, I could ask Gus, and you wouldn't be stuck having a stupid conversation instead of finishing your own detaily crap and we could get some real dinner, like pizza-chili-cheese fries, with a side of heartburn for my favorite sass master, C-C-Carlton Lassiter."

Good god, this _is_ a stupid conversation. And he's been having it. "I wouldn't eat that junk if I was starving." He rolls his eyes again. "I'm sorry for engaging you—if you can pipe back down and I can get back to work, we can stop so you can get something to eat on the way."

"Can I have more paper? I need to make a duck. And the duck needs a friend."

Of course it does. Lassiter closes his eyes briefly, then waves a hand toward the printer and its sheaf of paper below. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Spencer stands up and stretches, lopes over to the printer and collects some paper, glances around once, then comes back to plop back down in the chair. He starts folding it seemingly at random, and Lassiter turns back to his work. 

Another hour later, he just finishes telling Spencer off for offering origami ducks to every single person that passes by, along with the nonsensical life story of said paper fowl, when another folder appears out of the blue over his keyboard. He curses under his breath, flips it open, and just manages to resist putting a red X on it and taking it to the firing range. 

"How much longer?" Spencer whines. "Is that _more_ stuff you need to do? I'll help you if we can leave. Weren't we supposed to be able to go, like, two hours ago?"

"Yeah, well, that's the beauty of _real_ detective work," Lassiter says curtly. "You don't always get to pick your hours, nor do you get to lay around all day playing video games and watching stupid movies and YouTubing 'how to make a paper farmyard'. It's called, 'Another Case'. If you can shut up for maybe forty-five more minutes, I can try to get this wrapped up enough that I won't have to stay in tomorrow after I bring _you_ back. And you're done with this!" He snatches the rest of the paper away. "Honestly!"

"Great gosh and fishes!" Spencer trills, then subsides at the look Lassiter gives him. "Okay _okay_. Am I allowed to take a nap?"

"Yeah, fine, do that. Just don't leave that chair and I don't want to hear anything else from you."

"Sir yes sir." 

Lassiter turns to give the little shit another glare, but that last one sounded more weary than impertinent, and he's turning around in the chair and actually settling down. Lassiter decides to let it go, shaking his head a little. If only that smart mouth could find its way to coming up with something useful once in a while instead of a never ending stream of wisecracks, but if pigs had wings, bacon would be airborne. He goes back to re-reading witness statements and an autopsy report, frowning at an inconsistency in the timeline. Chasing that down takes another thirty-five minutes, and he's so relieved when he hits a momentary dead end ( _follow-up 2nd fem. vic t.o.d. re: body discovery site_ , he jots on a hellish pink Post-It from O'Hara's desk) that he leans back in his chair and closes his eyes for a moment. 

"Hey, Detective Lassiter."

He looks up to see a very reluctant, very tall officer. "If this is about your wife, McNab, this is _not_ the time."

"No, no. Officer Krebs said to get you. They called in your partner, but she's not here yet and it could be big."

He sighs. "What is it?"

"Fifteen-year-old girl was pulled over, speeding and reckless, driving a 2002 Camaro. The K-9 reacted and they found some cocaine, but that led to them finding blood and hair in the back hatch. The girl says she knows nothing about that, but." McNab shrugs.

Now Lassiter groans, thinking that this day will never, ever end. At least Spencer is still dozing and hasn't made a sound. "Hits on the car?"

"It was called in missing about a month ago, but upon arrest she said it was her sixteenth birthday and her grandmother just bought it for her."

Lassiter rolls his eyes. "Right," he says. "I think that one's a little too big to go down _my_ throat."

Suddenly, Spencer breaks into loud, long peals of laughter. Lassiter looks at him, slightly startled and bewildered. Then he gets it. "Ha ha!" he shouts. "Shut up, you're asleep!"

The size of that smirk should be outlawed. "Totally asleep," Spencer says, eyes closed but still snickering. "That was so golden it must have been a dream."

"Great," Lassiter says under his breath. He makes shooing motions at McNab, who rightly does an about-face to deliver the message that the head detective is on his way. Said Head Detective wonders how in the hell he's going to make their resident chattermouth actually stay put while he questions the suspect, especially since he's not supposed to let him out of his sight until tomorrow morning. "Spencer, I'll make you a deal."

"Interested."

" _Never_ speak of that again, and you can come downstairs with me and observe the interrogation." Not that Spencer really needs to see the questioning process again, but this one _does_ look like it might be big, and Lassiter can't think of what else to do with him in the next two minutes. Plus... ugh... he might pick up on something. It's been known to happen, and it's also been known to be helpful, no matter where he _really_ gets his information.

Spencer opens his eyes and sits up. "Not even to Gus? C'mon Lassifras, even if it wasn't totally and completely Freudian, it was funny. Don't be ashamed, just yesterday I accidentally made it sound like I was going to date a foot-long hot dog, not that I ate one."

Lassiter snorts. "If _that_ one's not Freudian..."

They're halfway down the hall when O'Hara comes in, tucking an empty paper coffee cup into a small trash bin near the doors. "Sorry," she says. "I can take it, Carlton. I'm sorry you're still here."

He frowns. "I'm Head Detective, I should be in on this."

"You can just as easily question her tomorrow, if you find anything lacking in my technique," O'Hara points out. "You've been here all morning and now all day and all night."

"Don't worry Jules, I'm almost ready to take him home." Spencer grins. "He's got his grumpypants on and needs to get out of them one way or another."

Lassiter ignores him. "I wasn't saying you couldn't, I meant that we need to get it done right as soon as possible, and I'm your superior."

"Ooooh," Spencer says softly. "Low blow, Jules. I wouldn't take that if I were you. Show off your grilling technique—I could really go for a steak right now."

"Shut up," both detectives say at once. O'Hara actually looks annoyed now, which makes him raise his eyebrows slightly and obey, something Lassiter is almost willing to let her take lead for. "Why don't you go home, Carlton?" O'Hara asks sternly. "I'll take over whatever you're working on after I question the girl downstairs—"

"If she doesn't give up anything, which she will if you know how to get it out of her," Lassiter says impatiently. "She's young, kids are easy to terrify."

"I'm just about terrified right now," Spencer mutters, but neither detective budges from their stubborn eye-lock. 

"If she doesn't, some time in the holding cell should give her some time to think it over while I try to get ahold of her guardians. That's standard. If there's still nothing, _I will take over your current case_ so that you can _go home_ and get some sleep. I'm sure Shawn wouldn't mind getting out of here, either."

"Actually—"

"Shut up!"

"'Up' isn't _open_."

Now O'Hara really does round on him. "Shawn, I swear to God—"

"Get your ass back over there if you want to keep it," Lassiter snarls, pointing back toward his desk and the chair Spencer had been in.

"Going, going." Spencer puts up his hands and turns, then turns back and talks as he walks backward. "But I'll have you know my ass has been a full member of the local lending library for three years now. There's even a waiting list, though I could easily pull some strings and get you bumped up."

"You see what I've been putting up with all day?" Lassiter scowls at his partner. "I need a break, and the car-thieving brat downstairs is mine."

"Nuh uh, I call her." O'Hara folds her arms. 

"You can't _call_ a suspect!"

"Shawn, back me up or I'll give you full permission to get cuddly in Carlton's house tonight," the sneaking backstabber calls.

"Um, no can do, Jules. I'm pretty sure he would kill me? For either infraction, actually."

"Damn right." Lassiter turns to menace at him. When he does, he sees Spencer's eyes track something behind him, and he turns around again in time to see the end of O'Hara's horsetail as she sprints down the corridor toward the interrogation rooms. "Oh, for the love of _Christmas_ ," he fumes.

"Annnnd, she's off!" Spencer intones. "That's Jewel-Tone Jules by a hair, followed closely but oh-too-secondly by Help-Lassie-Timmy-Fell-Down-A-Well. Unfortunately, the hair comes before the Head, but it was neck-and-neck there for a while. All ticket holders should check the boards before ripping up their life savings."

"Speaking of saving your life, Spencer..." Lassiter begins loudly. "I'm suddenly not sure I can keep you safe. Better stick you downstairs for freshness."

"I didn't side with her! And look." He makes the lips-zipped pantomime, complete with tossing away the key.

"That better not be retractable." Lassiter glances down the stairs once more, then heads back to his desk. "One more word though—and no, it doesn't _at all_ matter which word—and I won't give you the pleasure of annoying the ever-loving crap out of me tonight. I've absolutely had it."

Spencer crosses his heart, still with lips pressed firmly together, and Lassiter gives him another five seconds of the death stare before tearing his eyes away and trying to refocus on what he was doing. Right, a few calls to make and a few people to re-interview in the morning. He thinks it can't hurt to check what they have on the kid downstairs—probably nothing yet, but there should at least be the missing car report—and before he knows it another forty minutes are gone. 

Spencer's shifting around in his chair again, making it creak. Lassiter checks on him and sees that he's dozing again, his shoulders hunched and arms crossed as if he's cold, his head tilted over on one shoulder. "Done yet?" he mumbles.

"No." Lassiter sighs and rubs his eyes; they're tired and scratchy, and his legs are beginning to ache from sitting for so long. He's been trying to trace the car's whereabouts since it was stolen, waiting for O'Hara to come back and tell him if the teenager has given anything up yet, and can't believe it's taking so long. He would have had her confessing to stealing her grandmother's cigarette money in twenty minutes. "Almost." Spencer mumbles something. "Just go back to sleep," Lassiter says, leaning forward to his desk again.

Spencer's eyes don't open, but he shifts a little more, and his head rolls over to his other shoulder. "Just take me to bed, Lassie."

What.

Lassiter's raises his head a little and slowly looks at Spencer, who is slumped all of the way over now and appears to indeed be asleep again. He must have misheard that. Or Spencer got two or three different things jumbled around to make one odd phrase. He obviously meant to say, "You should let me go to bed," or, "Just take me home." Something like that. 

Weird.

And it's not like he hasn't occasionally thought of doing just that.

His fingers rest on his keyboard, but gently, and they don't move to cast him any closer to home. He can't help but glance at Spencer again, frowning slightly. No, that just... can't possibly be what he said. And _definitely_ not what he meant... not with all the big eyes and glib comments toward O'Hara. Unless he... but... 

No. It's nothing, no need to make a federal case out of it. If anything, it's definitely time to get back to work. Lassiter does so, trying to throw his mind back into traffic violations on the red light cameras' license plate lists, and he almost entirely makes it.


	2. Chapter 2

It's after nine by the time he's willing to go, and he's pissed off again that O'Hara won't tell him anything about her interview with the car thief, even though he knows that if she does, he probably won't be home until after midnight. He tries to wake Spencer by calling his name, but as that results only in some muttering about Thundercats, he becomes supremely annoyed and shakes him almost right out of the chair.

"Whoa, waves," Spencer says, throwing his arms out as he sits up.

Lassiter steps back. "You're not at sea, genius. Come on."

"Oh, you're finally done? Thank you, Santa Claus, I thought we were moving in here. The sleeping arrangements leave something to be desired, I gotta say."

"Want to sleep downstairs?"

Spencer shoves his hands into his pockets. "Nope. Ready to follow you home. Your mom says you can keep me—I'm completely housebroken, I swear."

"You better be," Lassiter grumbles, picking up his briefcase and heading for the door.

Spencer settles in the front seat of the car, now wide awake as they leave the station. "Can we stop at my place so I can get some stuff?" he asks.

Lassiter glances at him, annoyed. "What do you need now?"

Spencer spreads his hands. "If it's a problem, nothing. Won't be the first time my kit gets the forty-eight hour treatment. I figured on my toothbrush and maybe my iPod or something, though, unless you had your heart set on staying up late giggling and gossiping. I'll start: My stars, Lassie, did you see that cute new front desk officer? She's clearly been married for at least five years, but she's totally got the hots for the chief. Hang on, we'd better stop at my place after all—I need some pearls to clutch."

" _Fine_. Can't you ever just talk like a normal human being?"

"I tried, once, but it gave me the Hershey squirts." Spencer grins. "Calm down, buddy, I'm just making conversation. I know you weren't planning on company tonight, and I'm sorry to put you out, really. I promise to be a good little mousie—you won't even hear me squeak while you're going sleepy-bye." He pauses, considering Lassiter's stony face, and relents. "Which meeeeeeeans, I know you're super pissed at me, and I really am grateful you're not making me stay in jail—even though I was helping get solid evidence for that case—so I'll shut up and leave you alone if you want."

"You do that."

"Okay," he agrees, and turns to gaze out of the window. Lassiter is thankful for the the break in his inane chatter at once, but before long he finds himself glancing over at his passenger dubiously before they make it to the crappy apartment that Spencer calls home.

When the car is parked and turned off, Spencer unlatches his seat belt and raises his eyebrows. "What?" Lassiter says, trying not to make it _what now_. 

"Do you need to come in with me, or can I just go grab some things?"

"Why, have you got a giraffe cocaine ring in there, or something?"

Spencer snorts. "Dude, if only. I'm afraid the most interesting thing I have right now is probably the broken Slushie machine. I was trying to get it to make a peanut butter one, but it got gummed up. I'm not saying you can't come with me, I just figured you wouldn't want to if you didn't have to."

"I don't," Lassiter says after a moment. "You have ten minutes."

"Are we on a schedule?"

"Yes, Spencer. If I'm not home in half an hour I'm going to start shooting things, and look how close you are. Not that you need to be—I'm an excellent marksman."

Spencer ticks a finger off his forehead in a salute. "Back in five."

Lassiter leans his head back onto the seat's neck support and sighs heavily, not looking forward to the rest of the night. Not only does he more than anything just want a few drinks and an hour or so of the history channel, but there's something nagging at him, something that he's sure he'd be able to figure out if he weren't so tired. Something about Spencer. The way he's acting? No, he seems mostly like his usual annoying self, if slightly less so without Guster's presence and his professed gratitude at getting to sleep on a couch instead of a cot. Something he said? No, he's always saying asinine things that don't make sense. Except... 

The door opens again and Lassiter jerks upright as Spencer plops back into his seat, a backpack between his feet. "Four minutes and forty-three seconds," he says. "Remember that: I get seventeen extra seconds to run if you get mad at me later."

"I never agreed to that." Lassiter starts the car and points it toward his house. "You really think that'll make a difference?"

Spencer shrugs. "A few seconds can be all the time in the world."

"Yeah, I'll tell your next girlfriend to remember that."

Spencer looks startled, and Lassiter has a few seconds to savor that look, before he cracks a huge grin. "That was good!" he says. "I'm so proud of you, holding your own and actually bantering. See, it's not so horribly, awfully bad to talk to people sometimes."

"You're not 'people'."

Spencer scoffs, but Lassiter is suddenly sure that one hit closer to home than it really needed to. He could apologize, but he's one thousand percent sure Spencer would just make him regret it in less than five minutes. 

"Rude,” he says. “I'm going to have Gus make you conversation cards and quiz you on the rules. It's not nice to Lassie all over the place after someone compliments you."

"Did you just turn my name into a verb?"

"There's no way to be sure. What's a verb?"

"... never mind." Lassiter rolls his eyes for what feels like the eighty-seventh time today and they fall into silence for several minutes. When he starts to see more sidewalk food vendors and cafes under the mellow glow of lights, he remembers the stolen M&Ms and consequent gripes about how unfulfilling they were. "What is it you want, Spencer?"

"Huh?" Spencer glances over at him, squinting slightly. 

" _Food_. You said you were hungry." Lassiter stops at a red light and passes a hand quickly over his tired eyes again. "There isn't really anything at my place."

"Oh. Uh, right over there's good, I could go for a corn dog and a smoothie."

"Fine." When the light changes, he pulls the car into a slanted space and puts it into park. "Hurry up, you're not supposed to be out of my sight and I don't feel like coming along. But I swear to Lady Justice's garter belt, if you so much as wander off when I'm literally responsible for you—"

Spencer looks amused for a second, then his face changes. "Oh, shit. Ah... never mind."

"What?"

"There must be _something_ in your kitchen I can steal. I know you're going for that natural lanky beanpole look, but surely you can't live off coffee and sugar when you're at home."

"What are you talking about?" Lassiter scowls at him. "No, there is literally almost nothing in my house because I'm hardly there anymore. I just eat in the car or at my desk, when I even get a chance to eat. Do you want to get something or not?"

"You took my wallet," Spencer reminds him. "'Evidence.' No tengo dinero. I could probably get someone to give me something for free, what with my good looks and charm, but that's not usually instantaneous. Then, I could steal something—"

"For crying out..." Lassiter digs for his wallet, locates a ten, and holds it out. Spencer hesitates, and Lassiter drops it into his lap. "Just _hurry up_."

"If you're sure..."

"You're okay with stealing candy directly from my desk—directly from under my nose, I might add—and you're okay with taking cupcakes from O'Hara's desk and leaving notes about them going to join 'the mother pound cake', but you're too good to take cash?" Lassiter is almost at the end of his rope; it's fraying, and he's trying to keep his cool, but for some reason the kid continuing to just sit there, looking at him, is pissing him off. "Just shut up and get your goddamn smoothie or we're leaving."

"But then there'll be a rumbly in my tumbly."

Lassiter snatches the bill from where it still sits on Spencer's faded jeans, accidentally grabbing a fold of denim along with the cash and yanking before releasing. He puts the car in reverse, turning to look over his shoulder.

"Jiminy Willikers, Lassie, you don't have to pants me." Spencer's tone is amused, but his face seems to be more watchful than he normally lets on. "If you're sure you don't mind, I'll pay you back."

Lassiter puts the car back into park and proffers the ten-spot again. "Sorry," he mutters. "Fucked up day."

"It's cool. Thanks." This time Spencer takes the ten bucks and exits, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walks up the sidewalk. Lassiter leans forward and parks his forehead on the steering wheel, telling himself he doesn't feel bad for almost biting Spencer's head off for barely anything. The tips of his fingers also do not feel at all strange for having grabbed for his money back with a little too much vehemence, or for touching Spencer's thigh. His head feels heavy and he's almost dozing ten minutes later when Spencer comes back, sliding into his seat with a foam cup in one hand and a pretzel the size of his head in the other.

"What the hell? You can't possibly eat all of that." Lassiter is almost shocked by the hail-sized globs of salt.

"Don't force your beliefs on me, Lassie." Keeping in theme with his normal Spencer-self, he takes a ginormous bite of one side. 

Lassiter winces as he hears crunching, knowing that much salt would make him want to vomit, but hey, it's not his arteries. "What happened to your corn dog?"

"They weren't coated all the way and looked circumcised." Spencer shrugs and sips his drink. "To each his own, but they looked seriously weird with a cornmeal turtleneck, and I'm not at a place in my life right now where I can handle that."

Lassiter stares at him a moment, then abruptly decides this long, strange day needs to come to an end, and fast. They go the rest of the way to his house without speaking and in near silence; Lassiter's headache has forced him to switch off the radio the second they left the department, so the only sounds are the traffic and Spencer's munching, then the staccato slurping of his straw. He finishes the last of the smoothie as they enter Lassiter's dark kitchen, then crumples the paper sleeve from his pretzel, tucks it into the empty cup, and makes a perfect shot into the trash bin next to the counter. 

"Mmm, that hit the spot, thanks a million. You can totally read my fanfiction if you want," he offers as he perches on a stool.

"No thank you." Lassiter eases off his jacket and carefully lays it on the table, then considers the cupboard where he keeps moderately good scotch. Speaking of hitting the spot... He opens another cupboard for a rocks glass, and then hesitates. He glances over his shoulder and finds Spencer watching him, no surprise. "Do you like scotch?" he asks, thinking for some reason that he's asked him this before, but can't remember where or when. Or why, of all questions.

Spencer's eyebrows go up just a little, and he seems to consider. "Don't know," he says finally. "I've only tried it once or twice. I usually go for vodka or gin."

"I don't have either of those. Do you want a drink or not?"

"Sure."

Lassiter pours both of them a knock, then shrugs to himself and makes them doubles. What the hell, the day is almost over, and good riddance. He slides Spencer's glass towards him and downs half of his own right off, then leans against the counter next to the range and pokes at the mail he's brought in, hoping to see something interesting. Of course not. He looks over at the center island and sees Spencer studying his drink, head tilted slightly to one side. He takes a small sip, licks his lips, and stares into the glass some more.

Lassiter usually likes his peace and quiet, but right now it feels strange, much too quiet with the human chatterbox being still for once. "Well? What do you think?" he asks finally.

Spencer tastes his drink again, rolling it around in his mouth before his eyes finally flick over. "I think lots of things," he says lightly.

"I just bet. What do you think about the _scotch_?"

He gulps the rest in one swig, winces a little, and then holds up his empty glass. "I like it. Any more?"

Lassiter shrugs and motions to the cupboard. "It's right there, help yourself."

"Cool." Spencer gets up and adds more to his glass, then holds up the bottle questioningly. Lassiter looks at his nearly empty glass and holds it out with barely a consideration. Spencer plucks it from his hand and pours him another double before returning the bottle to the cupboard and getting back on his stool. 

Lassiter notices that his leg is bouncing up and down on one of the rungs. "You're probably not ready to go to sleep, are you?" he asks, without much hope.

"Probably not for a while," he agrees, "since I already slept some at the station."

Before he knows he's going to say anything, Lassiter asks, "Do you always talk in your sleep?"

Spencer looks over at him quickly, then shrugs. "I dunno, I'm not usually listening. Why, what'd I say?"

"...nothing."

"That sounds about right—most of the time I'm talking when I'm awake I'm saying nothing."

"I noticed."

Lassiter realizes that he doesn't like that that Spencer is so quiet. It's entirely unlike him, as well as him sitting calmly and sipping his drink, staring off into space. It's pissing him off, actually, even more so than his normal behavior—at least that he knows how to handle. He doesn't like feeling put off-center, especially by someone whose number he'd thought he'd had down completely. "Why are you doing that?" he demands suddenly.

Spencer looks up from he scotch he'd been slowly swirling around. "What? I'm not doing anything. I'm just sitting here, being quiet."

"Exactly," Lassiter says, annoyed.

“So... that's what you asked me to do?”

“And now you're doing what I tell you?”

“...yes?”

He doesn't want to say, 'well, stop it', because it _is_ what he's been saying he's wanted all day, but for some reason it's still putting his back up. “It's irritating."

"I'm irritating you by trying to _not_ irritate you," Spencer says slowly. He raises one hand, palm up. "I don't really know what to do with that. Do you come with a handbook?"

Lassiter gives him a look. "Why don't you blow me, Spencer."

Silence. Spencer squints at him, just slightly, his entire body still. 

"All out of smart ass comments, huh?" Lassiter asks after a moment. He would have expected just about anything except the studious look he's currently getting. 

"Yeah," Spencer says softly. "Weird, huh?"

The quiet seems to build, because it's not just quiet; there's clearly something in it, but what?

"What would you do if I did?" Spencer asks, tilting his head.

Lassiter realizes there's some sort of game going on here and it's his turn, but he's hesitant to move before he's sure what sort of game it is, exactly. He could refuse to play, but he's never liked someone trying to psych him out before he can even ascertain the situation. Spencer is clearly playing with him, so maybe he'll compete. "Are you really asking that?"

"Are _you_?"

Well... now what? He's more than a little uncomfortable, and even more at a loss than he was five minutes ago. What the hell. What the hell is Spencer trying to pull? "So you don't know everything, huh? What, did the spirit world finally abandon you?"

Spencer lifts his shoulders a couple of inches and lets them drop. "I'm asking you, not them." His voice is quiet and measured, and Lassiter watches his eyes deliberately drop down his front, where the source of his discomfort is immediately obvious. "You keep a holster down there, too? Because it looks like there's maybe a gun in your pocket. Or..." he lets the world trail off, his gaze coming back up and holding eye contact.

Lassiter presses his lips together, one hand gripping his glass too hard. "Don't flatter yourself," he snaps, turning his body away slightly. "If you must know, it's been a while since I've been with anyone. And it's been a long day! Excuse me if the—if the topic raises certain memories," he adds, realizing that he sounds much too defensive. He still doesn't know what the game is, and it's getting _weird_ , so perhaps to immediately concede is the best bet after all. He hesitates, willing himself to tear his eyes away from Spencer's face and to try to remember civil war generals. "Look, I'm sorry I said that," he says slowly. 

Spencer raises his eyebrows. "Are you?"

"Yes," he says firmly. Spencer continues to just sit and watch him, so he tosses back the rest of his drink. "It's been a long day for you too."

Silence again. Lassiter is just about to suggest he show Spencer where he'll be sleeping when he speaks up again, his voice low and musing. 

"Maybe I would."

Would what? Oh. _What?_ Lassiter can only gape. Chicken, he decides after another moment. The game is Chicken. It has to be. "Really," he says dryly.

It must be the lighting that makes Spencer's eyes appear darker and his pupils dilated. He doesn't seem to be breathing, but then the corners of his mouth turn up a little. "Sure," he says.

If this is Chicken, it's dangerous, because he can't really mean it—and it's probably more dangerous if he does. 

"Okay," Lassiter says finally, a note of challenge in his voice. "Then do it." Spencer doesn't move, and he can't help his triumphant smirk, though it's just a little one. "Shy?" he goads.

"Are you going to shoot me?" Spencer asks softly. 

Lassiter suddenly realizes that the intensity of Spencer's gaze, the stillness of his eyes, and the lack of wiseass grin on his face all point toward sincerity, not game-playing. This effectively slaps any sort of amusement from him, and he's back to wary and more than slightly confused. "Do you honestly think that I ever would?" he asks.

The tip of Spencer's tongue darts out quickly, and then his top front teeth pull at his lower lip. "Guess not."

Lassiter finally drags his eyes away, staring down into the few drops of scotch left in his glass. "Well, good," he says gruffly. "I won't." Pause. "Besides, you still have an extra seventeen seconds."

"True. I earned them."

More silence. Lassiter looks up, his face asking a question he can't bring himself to vocalize.

"I'm just trying to figure out how serious you are," Spencer explains. He glances down again, and Lassiter can feel his ears warming at the realization of how incredibly hard he is. "Looks like very."

He tries to clear his throat, but only manages a croak. He tries again and makes it. "Spencer, I... I didn't mean you have to—to—you don't—"

"I know. Maybe I feel like it." He pauses, considering. "Maybe you do too."

Lassiter has nothing in the entire world to say to this. Spencer stays where he is for another moment, and then he finally moves, setting his glass down on the counter and getting to his feet. Lassiter thinks he's going to leave, to go into the living room or something, but instead he takes one step towards _him_ , two steps, three steps and sinks down to his knees. Lassiter tries to back up, but the edge of the counter stops him and he just looks down helplessly. His heart has started taking crazy jumps and leaps and he's having a hard time breathing, especially when Spencer raises his hands, his fingers hovering just above the belt buckle. 

"Don't kill me," he breathes.

It's like watching a movie, a surreal alternate reality where Shawn Spencer undoes his fly and tentatively grips his dick through his shorts. He's still looking up when he slips his fingers into the waistband and pulls them down, wrapping his fingers around the cock and squeezing gently, testing. His eyes are solemn as he parts his lips again and licks them, taking in a slow breath. Lassiter doesn't move, he can't move, he doesn't dare. Spencer blinks and focuses his attention to his eye level, his quick eyes taking in everything. His left hand rests on Lassiter's thigh and his right hand curls loosely around his dick, and he can feel him move his fingers just a little, and then back and forth, stroking. There's a breath caught in his chest that can't get out, and he grips the edge of the counter he's leaning against when Spencer's head dips forward and he licks him, tasting him. 

"Breathe, Lassie," Spencer mumbles, and then makes the instruction worthless by swallowing almost all of his cock.

The air finally comes out in a harsh whoosh. He wants to stop this—his heart is going too hard and it's happening too quickly and too suddenly, how did they even get here, how can Spencer _really_ be on his knees in front of him, sucking his dick?—but he can't, and he feels like he might pass out if he tries. He's looking right at it and can't credit his eyes, or the way he's shaking, or the soft, slippery feel of Spencer's tongue as he sucks him up and down. He wasn't lying when he'd said it'd been a while, but his brain seems to have short-circuited and he honestly can't remember a blowjob ever feeling so good. He still should stop this, or do _anything_ , but then Spencer's fingers tighten on his leg, and he's making little hungry noises as his head goes back and forth, and Lassiter just breathes, panting, thankful he's still holding on. Spencer slows his pace almost excruciatingly and looks up as he continues, his lips tight as his tongue caresses, still tasting. His eyes are so deep and clear, and Lassiter can feel his thoughts breaking up and dissolving as he stares down at them, what feels like the biggest orgasm of his life looming.

An instant before he can propel over the edge, the suction is broken and Spencer releases him, breathing a little hard and licking his lips. Lassiter lets his breath out harshly again, both hands shaking on the counter and his legs trembling. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, to thank him maybe, or to stop this any way he can, even if it requires shouting and being an asshole, but there's not enough air for that, or anything else, only for holding on. 

"Is this all you want?" Spencer asks softly. He seems to read the unbroken series of question marks in Lassiter's head, and grins a little. "Because that's fine if it is. You..." He lets out a breath that's partly a small laugh. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this for you, and I aim to finish what I started either way. But you know what I mean."

No. No, he can't _possibly_ mean... "I... I don't know what you..."

"Yes you do." His voice is barely more than a whisper now. "I'm thinking you've wanted this for a while too." He squeezes Lassiter's dick again. "And I don't even need the spirits to tell me that. Lassie... I'm asking you if you want to fuck me."

Lassiter can't help it when his mouth drops open and his breath stops again.

"'Cause I've got to say," Spencer continues, "I really wouldn't mind that. In fact..." He licks his lips again. "I kind of wish you would. Don't try telling me you haven't ever wanted to stick it to me real good."

 _Spencer_ , Lassiter tries to say, but he can't push the name out, so he tries something else. "Shawn..." He's glad that his voice is only slightly shaky. Spencer's eyes widen at the use of his first name, and he licks his lips again. "I—I wasn't serious," Lassiter pleads.

There's another long pause. "Kay," Spencer says at last. "Don't mind me if I think you're a lying liar who's lying. Anyway, you're serious now, and so am I." His hand twitches, and so does Lassiter's dick, still throbbing in time to his heartbeat. "So? What do you say? Want to fuck me?"

There's simply no accounting for how they got here, and he tries one last thing, at the very end of his will, to establish some control, because he feels like he's hanging from the edge of the world by his fingernails. He can climb back up, but it's going to hurt, and maybe one free-fall— _one_ —won't be the end of everything. Wondering what he might soon be causing to flicker in those knowing eyes... that might be, but...

"Yes," he says quietly. "I do. But," he goes on quickly as Spencer grins, "on one condition. You—we have to understand something first."

Spencer's look is now a little suspicious, and Lassiter wishes he'd simply shut up after agreeing. But this is for the best, if this is going to happen. "Sure. What?"

"This... this whatever," Lassiter says, gesturing between them weakly, "is just for tonight. You—" He pauses, knowing the phrase isn't an exact fit, but not having time to dwell on a better one. "You get your itch scratched, and tomorrow you go back to being the most annoying little twerp I've ever met, so I know what the hell is going on and how to handle you."

"Harsh."

"Maybe," Lassiter says quietly. "I'm sorry. But it's necessary. Or." He swallows, not wanting this anymore, but needing to say it. "Or you have to stop, and we don't go any further. I—I'm grateful, Spencer, but—you—"

Spencer smiles. "Chill, Lassie, it's a deal. We'll spit-shake on it later. But I'm not done here yet." Before Lassiter can say or do anything else, his lips part again and Lassiter's dick, which has slowly been wilting due to lack of attention, is engulfed once more. He can't help but moan, and Spencer sucks him harder, encouraged and eager. It's good, so good he almost lets himself slip into the fall right away, but he manages to let go of the counter with one hand and cup Spencer's cheek, slowing him. 

"If you don't stop now, I'm going to be finished before we can get started."

Spencer's eyelids flutter closed for a moment, and Lassiter needlessly files away the information that he likes being held like this. "Okay," he agrees, leaning back. "Bedroom?"

"Yes." Lassiter lets go of his face and holds his hand open to help him up. Spencer bounces to his feet and quickly diverts to his backpack, turning around a second later with a couple of things in his hands. Lassiter isn't sure whether to be exasperated or amused, but as it turns out, he's both. "Have to stop at your place," he says. "To get a few things."

Spencer shrugs nonchalantly and begins to juggle two small packets of condoms and a tube of lube. "To be fair, I _was_ hopeful, but these were already packed for any occasion. I was a Boy Scout, you know."

"Right." Lassiter thinks he's probably juggling because he's nervous, so he snatches out of the air the next thing that goes flying up—the tube—and walks past him, heading for the hall.

Five minutes later he has Spencer in his bed, on his back, naked with his legs spread and Lassiter between them, making him let loose those breathy little noises as he strokes the soft, smooth skin of his dick. "I think this is obvious, but I need to ask," he murmurs, finally letting his eyes crawl everywhere he's never allowed them to before. "You've done this before, right?"

"Sure." Spencer thrusts his hips upwards for more. "As much as I'd like to give you my flower, Lassie, I lost track of that just after high school. It's been a while, though. Have you?"

"Once, with Victoria," Lassiter says hesitantly. "She didn't like it."

"Oh. Well, I do." Spencer grins again. "You done anything with a guy?" He raises his eyebrows when Lassiter looks at him guiltily. "Really? I'm honored. You know what to do, right?"

"It's not that I never had an opportunity. And yes, Spencer, I live in southern California, not under a rock. It's come up. I just... haven't."

"But you wanted to." 

"What do you think, _psychic_?" He squeezes Spencer's dick again, but not too hard, liking the way the tip of his tongue comes out and his eyes close. He returns his attention to the dick in his hands, stroking and rubbing his thumb over the slit. Spencer moans and squeezes Lassiter's hips with his thighs. "You really do want it, huh?"

"Yeah, way to go, Detective Obvious." Spencer smirks. "That only took three years of me sitting in your lap and calling you sexy."

"Couldn't have just _said_ that." Lassiter squeezes his dick again, this time intentionally too hard, and Spencer hisses in air. "Maybe if you didn't act like such a goddamn clown all of the time I wouldn't have to just assume you're mentally defective. I know you're not."

"Sorry buddy, the spirit of Bozo knows how to overwhelm my psychic senses. Can I help it if the squeaky nose makes me tingly inside?"

"Shut up."

"Fuck me and I will."

Lassiter looks up at his face and sees again that he wants it, bad. Of course, two eyes full of wanting are just as good as a rock hard cock in the hands. "Okay," he says. "Turn over, smart ass."

Spencer sits up, and then, without warning, he leans forward and kisses him, putting a hand on the back of Lassiter's neck and sliding his tongue in. Lassiter is almost shocked by the intimacy of this and he freezes; after a second Spencer backs off, gives him a quick, searching look, and turns over, grabbing a pillow and sticking it underneath his hips. He grabs the tube of lube that's been sitting on the sheet and hands it back, then spreads his legs, dips his back, and settles down. Lassiter uncaps the tube and squeezes cool, clear gel onto his fingers.

"Start with one?" he asks, pretty sure that's standard operating procedure, but wanting to get rid of the awkwardness he now feels from that unexpected kiss, and focus them both back onto the sex.

"Yep. I would say two's enough, but since it's been a while, and you're not exactly packing Pixy Stix... you don't need to spend forever doing it, though, I kind of like it rou—ohholyshitthat'scold!"

Lassiter smirks, having dabbed a biggish glob of the stuff directly onto him. He puts his left hand on the outside of Spencer's thigh and carefully pushes in one finger, watching for a reaction. Spencer makes an "mmmm" sound and turns his face to the mattress. There's next to no resistance, but when he tries a second finger, Lassiter feels him tense up quickly before making an obvious effort to relax. By the time he gets the first two fingers all the way inside him, Spencer is breathing harder and is still tensed, tight on the inside.

"You okay?" Lassiter asks, realizing that he can feel his pulse, and it's fast.

"Yeah, fine, never better," he breathes, his voice an octave higher than before.

"How long?"

"You can stop now if you want, I'll adjust."

"No, I mean... how long since you've done this?"

"Oh. Like... I don't know, a year? Why?"

"No reason." He moves his fingers slowly, surprised a minute later when Spencer moans loudly and pushes back. Not as tight as before... "Is this good?"

"Yes, so good," Spencer says, muffled. When he moves back more eagerly, Lassiter adds his third finger, and he squeaks in surprise. "That's good, that's good," he pants. "Stop for a sec, I want to turn around." 

Lassiter withdraws and leans back, wiping his fingers on the edge of the sheet while Spencer flips over, nestling the pillow under the small of his back. He lays back with his knees bent and his heels dug into the bed. Lassiter reaches for one of the condoms and rips it open, rolling it on and starting to move forward. 

"Wait!" Spencer feels around for something and comes up with tube of lube again. "More. Here." He sits up again, then unscrews the cap, applies some gel to his fingers, and reaches forward to thoroughly slick up Lassiter's dick. Lassiter closes his eyes at the renewed touch, and when he opens them again he sees Spencer biting at his lower lip again and glancing at his face. His cock throbs painfully in anticipation, but when Spencer lets go and wipes his hand on the sheet unconcernedly, Lassiter hesitates, the enormity—and inappropriateness—of what he's doing striking back at him.

Spencer sees this—of course, the motherfucker sees everything—and his eyes flash with something Lassiter can't discern, because it's gone almost instantly and his look is annoyed but amused. "No thinking," he says. "Bad Lassie. If you back out now, I might have to hit you with a rolled-up paper."

Lassiter scowls, knowing he doesn't honestly mean it, but that doesn’t mean he gets away with saying it. "Threatening a police officer?"

"Yeah." Spencer's mouth quirks up toward a grin, though his eyes are serious. "What are you going to do about it?"

Lassiter puts both hands on his shoulders and shoves him down on his back hard, moving between his legs again and pressing his cock on top of the smaller one. "Nothing," he says simply. "I'll back off if I feel like it. What are _you_ going to do about _that_?”

“Um... exactly what you say?”

“You _must_ be a genius.”

Lassiter pushes his dick inside him very slowly, holding still at the halfway point to give him more time to adjust. Spencer starts to shake as he pushes harder, and Lassiter watches his face carefully, seeing pain there, but seeing no sign of him wanting to stop, nor hearing anything except him breathing shallowly. He finally sinks in all the way and then stops completely, having to gather himself by breathing very slowly. 

“Are you okay?” he asks softly. Spencer nods but doesn't speak, and neither moves for several minutes, until Lassiter can feel him relax, bit by bit. He squeezes down on his dick and Lassiter hisses in air, hoping that the tightness isn't going to send him over the edge, and just manages to push his control back in place. Spencer sees this and smirks. “Don't move,” Lassiter tells him.

“But that's the point.” Spencer wiggles a little more on his cock, closing his eyes and moaning softly. “Ungh... you're so hard, it kind of hurts,” he mumbles, and then— “No, don't even think about it!” As Lassiter tries to pull back a little, Spencer grabs his elbows in a vice grip. “It's fine,” he says. “Just stay there, don't stop.” He licks his lips. “Gimme a minute to let me feel you. I'll be okay in just a sec.”

Lassiter frowns a little, definitely not wanting to stop, but thinking he shouldn't be in so far if he's causing someone else pain—Victoria and the few other women he'd been with had occasionally had the same problem. He tries to pull back a little anyway, and Spencer glares at him and thrusts himself forward while gripping his arms tighter with another flare of pain. 

Lassiter grunts, feeling his dick twitch. “I told you not to move.”

“Yeah, well, that's what I told you, and I don't see you listening.”

“I'm trying not to hurt you!” Lassiter snarls, a little pissed off that he actually gives a shit about being gentle with this smart ass.

“I told you to just hold still and give me a minute—"

“ _Fine_.” Lassiter yanks his arms out of Spencer's hands, and then grips _his_ forearms, pinning him hard into the mattress with his hands near his hips. Spencer looks up at him in surprise, and Lassiter wonders if he's gone too far, but then he feels Spencer squeezing down on his dick again, trying to wiggle and not getting much. Spencer closes his eyes and breathes slowly, biting at his lip and making soft noises. It feels amazing, like a hot, intense massage, and Lassiter concentrates on holding on.

Just before he feels like the squeezing alone is going to make him come, Spencer stops, relaxes, and grins. “Okay,” he breathes. “I'm ready. Fuck me.”

 _He's_ ready, Lassiter thinks sourly, still treading the edge. 

Spencer squeezes down on him again and tries to buck his hips, but he can't get much more than a twitch with how he's being held. "I said I'm ready," he repeats. "Move, Lassie!"

"No."

"What the fuck?" he pleads.

God, he wants to, but he's almost positive that one move in any direction will finish everything; Spencer's body is too tight and too warm, and it's been so long. "I will when _I’m_ damn good and ready," he says, gripping Spencer's forearms tighter. "Take what I give you and shut up."

Spencer rolls his eyes back, his lips parting so he can pant and moan. "Okay," he whispers. "Jesus, that's fucking hot." He's still squirming on Lassiter's cock, but he doesn't feel quite so tight—and then he flexes again.

"Quit that!" Lassiter thinks he's going to come before he's able to actually fuck him if he doesn't.

"Make me," Spencer breathes. He does it again, though not so hard, and moans. "You're so fucking big, Lassie, god. Feels so good, I can't stop." His entire body shudders, and when he makes eye contact again, his desperation is perfectly clear. " _Please_ fuck me," he says. "I can't stand it any more, please, fuck me hard, I _need_ it, I need _you_."

It takes almost everything, but Lassiter is able to slowly let go of one of his arms and bring a hand toward his face, fighting an urge to clamp his hand over his ever-lasting mouth, to stop his begging before it gets to be entirely too much for both of them. Instead, he holds one finger up, and when Spencer's eyes focus on it, he lightly touches his lower lip. "Shhhh," he says, so quiet that it's more breath than sound. Spencer licks his finger, then takes the tip of it in and sucks on it, and Lassiter closes his eyes briefly before taking it back. 

When he releases Spencer's other arm, he sees that his fingers have left red marks, and he hopes that there won't be bruises. It's too late to do anything about it if there are, but he actually seemed to enjoy being held down like that, so Lassiter dismisses it. He's still trying not to move inside him too much yet, hoping he'll be able to last just a few more minutes, but Spencer's trying to ruin that by squeezing down on him again, writhing and whimpering. When Lassiter loosely closes his hand around Spencer's dick, his entire body shudders and his heels dig into Lassiter's kidneys, urging him forward.

“Ow, fuck, watch it,” he admonishes, squeezing his dick harder.

“Lassie,” Spencer moans, his hands fisted in the sheet. His entire body is now very tight and he's breathing in quick, shallow gasps. “Ohmygod, that feels so good.” He tries to jerk his hips up into Lassiter's hand, which results in driving his dick further inside him again.

“Stop moving if you want me to do this,” Lassiter orders. “I move, not you.”

“Are you _going_ to?”

“Nope.”

“Dick!” Spencer tries to glare again, but his eyes close and he moans when Lassiter starts jerking his cock again.

“Right,” he agrees, and sets up a rhythm, determined to make Spencer come before he does. He can tell Spencer's trying to obey and keep still, but at this angle it's almost like getting himself off, except that it's curving away instead of toward him, and it's far too easy to stroke and squeeze, moving his hand faster. 

Spencer's breathing gets louder and his hips jerk up again, causing Lassiter's dick to move inside him just a little. “Lassie, please, _please_... ”

It's already going to be over soon, and he can't hold back any more: he pulls back about halfway and slams forward, barely hearing Spencer's continued cries of, “Ohgod” and “ _Lassie_ , fuck!” He can only rock his hips back and forth maybe three times before Spencer comes, his body tensing so hard that Lassiter can hardly move inside him any more, and then he loses all control and can't breathe with the intensity of it. He falls forward on both hands, shoving his dick all of the way inside him one last time and feeling Spencer's legs wrapping around him again. They're still for what feels like forever, just looking at each other and catching their breaths.

“Holy shit,” Spencer says weakly. He lays on the bed bonelessly as Lassiter pushes himself up and goes to the bathroom to dispose of the condom and wet a cloth to wipe himself off. He hears Spencer say something about 'being all gooey', so after he slips his robe on, he brings back a second cloth and holds it out silently. “Thanks,” he says, taking it and wiping off his stomach. “I'll totally let you do me in the shower tomorrow morning, but this is good for now.” Lassiter doesn't speak, and after a second Spencer's eyes flick up to him again. “What's up, pup? You... kind of look mad?”

“I'm not.”

There's another long silence, Lassiter frowning at the coverlet of his bed that had been thrown back and Spencer searching his face. “Okay... do you want to talk?”

About _what_? The stupid thing they just did? That he did? “Not really.” He finally looks at him to see a completely uncharacteristic look of uncertainty on Spencer's face, and quashes an urge to reassure him that everything's okay, because it's not. “Look, I just want to get some sleep,” he says. “It was a stressful day and I need to take you back to the station at eight tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Spencer glances down at the floor, where his clothes landed earlier. “I guess you want me to get out of your bed?”

Lassiter doesn't reply, because the answer is both _you don't have to_ and _who do you think you are, my boyfriend?_

Spencer moves to the side of the bed and stands up, pulling his pants on. “That's cool,” he says to his shirt, pulling the sleeves inside-right and sticking his arms into them. “Can I get a blanket?”

Without speaking, Lassiter gets up and opens the closet. When he turns around with a spare comforter, Spencer is completely dressed, and it's hard to miss the hurt look in his eyes he's trying to hide as he takes the blanket. Lassiter wants to say something to him but can't think of anything... and besides, what would be the point? In either case, Spencer doesn't give him much of a chance: he says his thanks for the comforter and heads out of the room, and Lassiter can see the dim light from one of the lamps in the living room go on. He sighs and lies down, very thankful that he really is quite sleepy and probably won't be awake long enough to spend time dwelling on this. Not much, anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

His alarm goes off at six-thirty and he silences it quickly, wincing with a bit of headache... and he'd almost forgotten about the scotch. Well, that at least helped to explain what the fuck had happened last night. He doesn't hear anything in the house and hopes that Spencer is still asleep, so he shuts himself in the bathroom to shower and change. The shower door is still dripping, a towel hung over the bar and the cap of his shampoo sticking up. Of course. He sighs and showers quickly, dressing in his room and just finishing with his tie when he hears the back door slam.

“Good morning, Starshine,” Spencer says cheerily when Lassiter comes into the kitchen. He sets a plastic bag on the table and takes out two flat Styrofoam containers.

“Did you leave?” Lassiter demands. “Do you even know what 'custody' means?”

“Sure, a charge of the police or other guardian. Think fast.” Spencer tosses a set of keys at him, and Lassiter just manages to grab them.

“And you took _my_ car?”

“To get you pancakes.” He holds up one of the containers. “My vision yesterday demanded it. You don't even know what can happen when you mess with the forces of darkness.”

Lassiter is so exasperated that the only option is to put it aside for later, if ever: Spencer is Spencer and will always do what he wants. “Since when are pancakes dark?”

“They're not. Well, mine are, because they're chocolate, but I didn't know if you liked those, so you get buttermilk.” Spencer goes to the drawers, selects the correct one without looking further, and comes back with two forks and butter knives.

Lassiter rolls his eyes and goes to the cupboard for a mug; he sees the coffee maker has been set and the pot is almost full. “I told you I didn't want any pancakes.”

“Pretty sure you said you didn't care about sprinkles.” Spencer nudges one of the boxes. “No sprinkles.”

Lassiter is also pretty sure he said he didn't like pancakes—he's not much for any kind of breakfast, really, coffee is enough—but he's sure there would be some sort of answer for that, too, so he sighs heavily and sits down. “This doesn't make up for you leaving.”

“Gonna tell teacher on me?”

Considering the times he intentionally let him out of his sight after they'd left the station last night, and _also_ considering the hugely inappropriate thing he'd done with him after they'd got back here... “No.” He picks up his fork and pokes at one of the cakes. “How did you pay for these?” he asks suddenly. “I thought you didn't have any money.”

“I have a tab.”

“At a pancake house.”

Spencer shrugs and licks chocolate sauce from the end of one finger. “Sure,” he says, as though that should have been obvious.

Lassiter notices that Spencer's only picking at his own pancakes, and that it's far too quiet in here. He sighs again. “Spencer, look... ”

“You don't have to say anything,” he interrupts quickly. “But I can tell you an interesting fact: the traffic this morning is horrible. Bonus fact: it's after seven.”

Lassiter drains the rest of his coffee and stands. “Let's go.”

His car radio has been switched from an AM news channel to the FM band, blasting some sort of harmonic pop-rock, but he leaves it, not looking forward to fifteen or twenty minutes of silence instead. Spencer looks out of the window and taps his fingers on the door handle in time to the music, not saying a single word until they get to the police department. Inside Chief Vick's office, where Lassiter waits for the form to sign off on having brought his charge back, they find Guster and Henry Spencer waiting.

“Where the hell were you?” Henry scowls at his son. “I was here an hour ago to get you, but they said you weren't downstairs.”

“Sorry Dad, I find that jail cramps my style,” Spencer says loftily. “I stayed with Lassie instead. Hi, Gus. I made you a paper duck, but Lassie Fudd wouldn't take 'wabbit season' for an answer.”

Guster starts to speak, looks confusedly at the younger Spencer for a moment, and then scoffs. “You're the Daffy one. How could you break into that office without me? I mean, um, at all?”

“You were in Santa Paula at that stupid drug party.”

“It wasn't a party, Shawn! I was learning, not taking X and dancing!”

“Gus, don't be a dead battery. That's how some people learn.”

“Not me, and not my associates.”

“Whatever, I know what you druggies really get up to with the samples when no one's looking.”

“Here we go.” Chief Vick enters the office and hands Lassiter a stapled set of sheets he bends down to sign. 

When he's through, he sees Henry glaring at both of the Idiot Twins. Good, he's much too tired to deal with anything else right now. “Do you need me for anything else, Chief?” he asks wearily.

“No, thank you, Detective, please enjoy the rest of your day off.”

He doesn't.

.

It's almost three weeks later that he finally sees Spencer again, breezing into the place and going directly into the Chief's office with some late-breaking press from the beyond, or whatever. Lassiter is supremely irritated when he's called in to find that the new info is for the case he's working on—the teenage car-thief and the signs of foul play in the car's hatchback. Then, a few hours later, he's almost annoyed enough to spit nails when Spencer figures out that the teenager's _grandmother_ had beaten the holy shit out of a would-be purse snatcher—the original thief of the Camaro—with her heavy wooden cane, shoved him into the stolen car, dropped the body off at a hospital, and proceeded to actually 'give' the car to the fifteen-year-old, who she'd assumed would wreck it and abandon it.

Lassiter throws himself into his chair to finish up the case paperwork, ignoring the curious look he's getting from his partner. “What a family,” he mutters.

O'Hara nods. “I can understand not wanting to be mugged, but her own granddaughter... ”

“Yeah, well, it's our job to catch them and book them, not judge them. Not that we can't.” He makes a face as he remembers that it wasn't even them that caught them. “O'Hara, can you—what?”

She's giving him that look again, one he's noticed quite a lot in the last couple of weeks, like she's trying to figure something out. Which is all fine and good, because that's her job, but it's _not_ her job to figure _him_ out, so she needs to knock it off. Before she does. “Nothing,” she says after a moment. “What were you saying?”

“Can you hand me the transcript from your first interview with the girl?”

“Sure.”

He tries to read it over again, but feels her eyes on the back of his neck, and looks up again, impatiently. “Is there something you need?”

She raises her eyebrows. “No, sorry.” He goes back to the document, but then has to press his lips together against an aggravated sigh when she starts up again. “It's just—in the interrogation room, when we were finishing up with Mrs. Hensley? Shawn was trying to talk to you, and you just turned your back on him and left.”

“So? I try to do that whenever he's talking.”

“But you usually don't, especially when it has to do with a case,” she persists. “You at least listen to him, even if you don't take him seriously. He was trying to tell you that even though the girl tested positive for cocaine, the baggie the K-9 found belonged to Silva, not her. He had a vision of him stashing it in the glove compartment before he tried to mug her grandmother.”

Lassiter shrugs. “I heard 'vision' and went to do some real investigating. Silva was wearing gloves when they admitted him to the hospital, and there were no prints on the baggie, like there would have been if she'd touched it. Case solved.”

“Right... ” She's still frowning, though, and he tries to go back to his report anyway, knowing she isn't done. “It's just... ”

“ _What_ , O'Hara?”

She raises her eyebrows again, a little surprised at his force. “It's just that you seem to be on edge a lot in the last couple of weeks,” she says softly. “I thought it was just this case, at least, until Shawn and Gus got here and you would barely look in their direction, unless Shawn wasn't looking at _you_. And then when you did look at him...”

Fuck.

“I wasn't sure,” O'Hara goes on, watching him closely, “but... Carlton, did something happen the night you took Shawn home with you?”

He cringes a little at that phrase, unable to help it, and knows she sees it. “Absolutely nothing,” he says. “Why do you think so?”

“I don't know, nothing outright. Just a feeling.”

O'Hara's intuitions are good, and so are her sharp eyes, and Lassiter thinks that he'll have to give her something and hope she'll think that's all there is. “He left my custody,” he tells her. “In the morning, while I was still asleep, he took my car on a pancake spree. I'm still pissed about it.”

“And you didn't tell the Chief?”

He looks up at her incredulously. “Why, so I could be reprimanded for not keeping a closer eye on him? Short of cuffing him to the coffee table, there wasn't a lot I could really do.”

“Oh.”

“What was I supposed to do, _get cuddly_?” 

That earns him another strange look. “No, of course not.” She pauses, looking troubled. “Was that... all that happened?”

“O'Hara...” he says warningly.

“This is me,” she says, so softly he can barely hear her, her eyes holding his. “I'm your partner, and you know I have your back no matter what. I just want to make sure you're okay.”

“Me?” He doesn't want to sound pissed off at her, not when she really is the only one he can count on most of the time, but he needs her to let this go sometime around yesterday. “I am _fine_.”

She looks at him for another long moment, and then she nods and turns back to her computer and starts to type. He tries to go back to the transcript, but now he's even more pissed off than before, mainly because he's not fine and wishes he could figure out how to be again. He tries to tell himself that it's only because he feels irrationally guilty over the look in Spencer's eyes as he got out of the bed and left the room; it's probably not because he regrets not being able to tell him he could have stayed, that he should have stayed. 

.

Later that night, he's in one of the records rooms, an open file on the cabinet in front of him, when he hears shuffling sneakers behind him. For some reason, he feels a shard of ice in his stomach a split second before the voice confirms what he's dreaded. He's not sure he's ready for this, and still, after all of his thinking in circles, not completely sure what's going to happen.

“Hi, Lassie.”

He closes his eyes briefly, not turning around, knowing this was coming and still not sure what he wants to do, or say, or how. “What do you want, Spencer?”

“Well, that's a loaded question, Lass. I want lots of things: I want a million dollars, I want my MTV, I want it that way, I want a zig-a-zig-ah...”

“A _what_?” Lassiter turns around to see that Spencer's pulled open a file drawer at random and is poking through the folders.

“Nothing. Whatcha doin'?”

“Work,” he says curtly. “Why don't you go find some, it's all the rage.”

“I'm talking to you,” Spencer says, which seems to be both an agreement and an excuse. He pulls a file out halfway, peeks inside, and slips it back.

“I'm busy.”

“So busy you're here after eleven, browsing through cold cases?”

“How do you—” Lassiter stops and shakes his head once, closing the file and sticking it back into the drawer. “If you're here for a reason, get to it.”

“Okay. It's late, and you should take me home with you again.”

“No,” Lassiter says. “That was a severe lapse in judgment and it's not happening again. You agreed to that.”

“I agreed that you would know what was going on and how to handle me,” Spencer says. “I promise you can handle me any way you like.” He glances over and murmurs, “Besides, you didn't actually get to _fuck_ me.” Then he grins when Lassiter glances around quickly for others, sees no one, and glares at him. “You owe me.”

“I don't owe you a goddamn thing, Spencer, particularly not my dick.”

“Okay, fine, you don't owe me.” He shrugs and pulls out another file at random to inspect. “Maybe a loan? I'm good for it, and there's a lot of potential for interest, particularly over the long-term.”

“You want to tell me what that's supposed to mean?”

Spencer looks at him now, exasperated. "It means I _like_ you, Detective Obvious. But I know I can annoy the crap out of you, so... if you don't like me, or not like that, that's cool. Because I can't say that I'll never piss you off or make you want to throw me into a wall again—although, hey, that could end up being fun. I'm just saying... I know I can sometimes be a tool, but I've also been known to help you, and I can try to tone it down when you're actually trying to get stuff done. I was just thinking that trying to avoid you was stupid, and that if you were trying to avoid me, that's even stupider, because who knows how things could turn out, especially if we're both thinking the same things."

Lassiter folds his arms tiredly. "You do realize I don't have time to stand around listening to you babble all night? What is it you're actually trying to say?"

"You don't get it?"

"Spencer—"

"I did say it; it was in the babble." Spencer just looks at him for a long moment, and then his shoulders slump and he looks away and sighs. "Never mind. You can get back to work, I have to go... do a thing."

"Why me?" Lassiter asks flatly. 

Spencer shrugs, still not looking at him. "What can I say, you put the boom-boom into my heart."

"What. Does that. Mean.”

“It means you send my soul sky high when your lovin' starts.”

He must be quoting something stupid again. “Great, I'll put that in my résumé.”

Spencer snorts. “You should. And then get it framed.”

Lassiter just looks at him until he glances up. “I'm not into cryptic quotes and obscurities, Shawn,” he says softly.

Spencer's face goes very still at the use of his first name. “I'm saying that I want you,” he says after a moment. “Maybe, you know... not just for the amazing sex.”

Lassiter suddenly finds it hard to breathe again, which makes sense, as the room has lost all of its air. “Why?” he manages. “In case you haven't noticed, I'm kind of an asshole to you.”

“Yeah, but you're like that with everyone, so I don't take it personally.”

“You should.”

“Thanks.”

Lassiter is incredibly frustrated now, unable to allow himself to think the things he wants to say, and it comes out as belligerence. “You know, you annoy the _shit_ out of me, Spencer.”

“Yeah, but I do that with everyone,” he says blithely. “Don't take it personally. I probably do it with you more since I've liked you for so long.”

“I guess I was too busy trying to clean up your messes to notice.”

Several things seem to go over Spencer's face, and then he finally presses his lips together and shrugs again. “Okay. I get it.”

“Get what?”

“'No'. You're not into me, you don't want anything to do with me again. I thought maybe you did, or would, especially after what happened, and even Gus said you were looking at me weird when I figured out what Grandma Walk-Softly-And-Carry-A-Big Stick did, but... you don't, so I'll quit bugging you. About this, anyway. Can't help it if I know something about a case that might help.” He runs the file drawer closed. “I don't now, so... I guess I have no business here.”

“I never said that,” Lassiter says, low.

Spencer squints at him and tilts his head slightly. “No,” he agrees after a moment. “I guess you didn't. Do you want to say it now?”

“I will if I have to.”

“That's not what I asked.”

“No, I don't want to,” Lassiter says, pissed off again. “But that doesn't always matter, and you're evidently incapable of getting that. You can't always get what you want.”

“But if you try sometimes, you just might find—“

Lassiter holds up one finger, and Spencer subsides. “I can't be with someone who does whatever the fuck they want, whenever the fuck they want, and just expects everything to turn out fine.”

“Yeah, I know.” He shrugs again and tries to smile. “Like I said, it's cool. I'll see you around.”

He's almost out the door before Lassiter can force himself to say anything. “Spencer! Can you—can you just be serious?”

He turns back around with one eyebrow slightly raised. “I _was_ being serious.”

“I know.” Lassiter sighs and rubs at his forehead. “Can you do it more often? Is that even possible?”

“Sure,” he says warily. “I mean, probably. I've never tried it for more than a few days at a time, and by the end I wasn't sure who I was anymore.”

“I don't mean all the time, and I don't mean you can't be yourself,” Lassiter says tiredly. “I just—I seem to be able to handle being around you a lot easier when you're not behaving like one of the lost Stooges.”

“Oh. Yeah, totally. I can try to cut the crap when it's important. Or when it's important to someone important to me.”

“Since when am I important to you?”

“Since... always? Since you believed in me to solve cases, even though you don't believe in how I know things. Since you needed me, like when there was a murder at your father-in-law's lodge, or when Drimmer set you up, and I did everything I could to come through for you.”

“Why me?” Lassiter asks again, still unclear on this. “You—I didn't even know you were... whatever it is you are.”

“Mmm... flexible.” Spencer shrugs. “And I'm sorry, but I maintain that that should have been obvious.”

“I thought you were kidding. Just... being a jackass.”

“Well, I can't deny that part.” There's a pause, and then Spencer grins a little. “You said 'you can't always get what you want'. You thought about me before all of this.” He squints again, studying the other man. “And... you've thought about me since? ...a lot?”

Lassiter folds his arms again. “Maybe. So what?”

“So nothing,” he says after a moment of consideration. “I just owe Gus a case of Red Vines, since he's been saying you've had a soft place for me ever since you got me my bike back after the weatherman murder.” Spencer shrugs again. “Looked to me like you've kinda gone back and forth, and to be fair a lot of the time I was hoping more for a hard place—“

“Spencer.”

He shuts up, and then there's a long silence. Lassiter realizes that Spencer's watching him for the next move, the next cue, trying to not be too optimistic. 

“It's late,” he says finally. “I'm tired, and I still don't know what exactly you want from me.”

“I already told you,” Spencer says quietly.

Lassiter hesitates. “Sex.”

“No. Well, yes. Lots and lots of yes. But...” He raises his eyebrows again. “More than that? Maybe?”

“You want something serious. With me.”

“I can be _so_ serious.”

“Have you ever been serious with someone before?”

“Uh... well. No,” he admits. “But I've wanted to try.”

“I'm not here to help you try to grow up, Spencer. I don't have time for that, and I don't even want to try. I'm not interested in even thinking about being with someone who can't behave like a functional adult at least half of the time.”

“I know.”

“That includes pretending to have magical powers and getting in my way when I'm working cases.”

Spencer considers this. “I get the feeling the spirits don't like you,” he says. “They might want to take a hike or sit down to a Family Matters marathon when you need legit evidence to go on.”

“So... you're telling me you can do all that?”

“Well... I mean, I did say that I know I'm likely to still piss you off, it just won't be intentional.” Spencer shuffles his feet and hooks his thumbs into his jeans pockets. “I'm going to try not to. And that actually goes for no matter what you want to do or how much time you do or don't want to spend around me. 'Cause no matter what, I'm, you know.” He smiles a little. “Glad for what happened.”

“Spencer, I...” Lassiter sighs heavily and rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “You can't just pop down here and tell me those things and expect me to instantly make up my mind what I want to do, or how _I_ feel about things. Or you.”

“Fair enough. You want time to think about it?”

He closes his eyes for a moment, and then looks at him. “As it happens, I already have.” 

Spencer seems to be searching his face, and then he drops his eyes and nods. “...oh.”

“And I'm still talking to you,” Lassiter goes on. “And it's late. So I'm going home.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“And...” He can't believe he's saying this, but in a way, he can't believe he hasn't had the sack to say it earlier, because now that his thinking has reached its inevitable conclusion, it's easy. It might be a huge mistake, but damn it, it had felt so good, and not just physically, not when he'd actually been able to put it together. “You can come with me,” he says slowly. “If you're really serious about wanting to.”

Spencer looks surprised, and then he slowly grins. “Yeah,” he says again. “Okay.”

“On a... trial basis.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“No promises that I won't end up throwing you out of my moving car,” Lassiter warns.

Spencer shrugs, still looking pleased. “No promises that I won't replace all of your hand lotion with Hershey's syrup.”

That sounds sticky. Lassiter frowns. “Wouldn't that defeat the purpose of the lotion?”

Spencer stares at him. “Wow,” he says after a moment. “I have so much to teach you.”

Lassiter sighs again, but this time it's partly amused. “I bet,” he says. “When can you start?”

“Mmmm... that depends.”

“On?”

“How long does it take to get to your house?”

“About twenty minutes.”

Spencer licks his lips again and quirks his eyebrows. “Can you make it fifteen?”

He can.


End file.
